Free The Forgotten War by Howard Sargent Page B

Quickly she pulled up her dress, exposing
her ankles and calves along with her woefully inadequate soft shoes, and started to clamber on to the rock. She skirted around its edge until where she stood was actually overlooking the sea. They
are bound to see me soon, she thought. She looked up and saw that the rock now completely concealed her from the soldiers as well as the servants. She would get such a scolding! The sea splashed at
the rock, wetting her feet and legs. She would need her spare shoes after all. And then she saw it.
    What by Elissa was that? She crouched down for a better look. Some six inches under water, caught in a cleft in the rock, was what appeared to be a ruby. The problem with describing it thus,
though, was that it appeared to be nearly the size of Ceriana’s fist. She put her hand into the water, soaking her lace cuff. The ruby or whatever it was was embedded quite firmly and needed
a bit of a tug to get it free. It came loose in her hand but the effort required caused her foot to slip. She ended up on her backside, feet, legs and part of her dress in the sea. Then a larger
wave covered the rock face on which she was balanced, drenching her face and hair. She did not care, though. Righting herself, she took a deep breath before regarding her prize.
    It
was
a ruby... What else could it be? It had no facets, certainly, but an unpolished stone would not sparkle as brilliantly as this did. She held the jewel up to the light and found her
face and neck bathed in a rich, blood-red luminosity. Yes, she thought, it has the colour of blood! As she stared at it she realised covetously that she did not want anyone else to see it, not yet
– not until she had examined it properly herself. She took out the handkerchief that she kept tucked into her dress and used it to quickly wrap the stone; she then gripped it tightly in one
hand so that it looked like she had just been using it to wipe sweat and water from her face and brow. She turned back, retracing her steps and with one last flourish hopped lightly off the
rock.
    Berek was not five feet from her with an expression as if he had just drunk a flask of sour wine. He held up something in front of her face.
    ‘Clean shoes, my Lady?’

4
    After the rain came the frost. The night was unseasonably cold. The inky blackness of the camp was lit up by a smattering of red smoking braziers around which the shadowy
figures of the night watch had congregated. Wispy tendrils of mist slithered between the tents, driving down the temperature. The dawn was coming. The ground was coated in brittle ice, and the mud,
churned up in the wet, had frozen into a variety of contorted ropelike patterns. As the camp stirred in the glow of the dawn, the sounds of heavy boots, animal hooves and the wheels of the wagons
crunching through this frozen sludge rose above the hoarse cries of the officers and the grumbling of the rank and file.
    In many ways Reynard Lanthorpe was the Tanaren ideal – blond, blue-eyed, a well-trimmed flaxen beard – but even he had that barely perceptible look of a man who had seen more than he
should, a look borne by many men who had fought in this war too long.
    ‘Morning, Glaivedon.’ he said brusquely as Morgan ambled towards him, frenziedly rubbing his hands together. ‘I have to supply you with some men, I believe. I hope you
don’t want too many; there is only so many we can spare.’
    ‘Not too many, no. Four or five should be sufficient. We really want to move as quickly as possible and not get noticed, though that may be difficult with the wagon we have to take.
Whoever volunteers and is chosen needs to know that this is a job that carries many risks; maybe more than if they were to stay here war or no war.’
    ‘Experienced men then! They are an even more precious commodity. I spoke with the men last night and we have some volunteers. I will go to speak with them again. Shall I mention your
name?’
    ‘You had better – it